


rising, ascending

by saltedmoon



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alternate Universe - Cyberpunk, Family Fluff, Leakira au, M/M, give a stranger a ride thru the desert and fall in love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-16
Updated: 2018-08-16
Packaged: 2019-06-28 09:11:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,255
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15704208
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/saltedmoon/pseuds/saltedmoon
Summary: “Your flying deathtrap could use a makeover,” comes a voice from his side, where the stranger he’s just rescued from a buzzing mass of drones is standing kind of awkwardly, all limbs and nerves. He’s picking at where the paint’s chipped with a gloved finger and Akira resists the urge to slap his hand away. “Lemme tell you, though, stuff’s hard to come by nowadays.”





	rising, ascending

**Author's Note:**

> sooo this is the new cool AU in town and i wanted to give it a try myself! i'm not sure who started it (did Someone start it??) so i don't really know who to credit for the plot bunny/setting but if y'all do lemme know in the comments. also lemme know if u liked it ;3c

The red paint of his hover bike glimmers in the surreal sunset light, the contrast stark against the colors of the sun filtering through the fumes of the city skyline miles away. Akira smiles faintly as he remembers the days spent painting the whole thing with Hachiko under the scorching heat, Dante’s exasperated but fond arguments about lighter colors to blend in with the desert around them a welcome, constant background. “It’s going to overheat like that!” is what he had said, and truth be told Akira has burnt himself with the too-hot metal a few times, but what’s common sense in the face of a flaming red hover bike.

(A big fat nothing, is what it is. Also, Akira was fourteen back then and pinning the blame on Hachiko for being an irresponsible enabler is _way_ more fun.)

“Your flying deathtrap could use a makeover,” comes a voice from his side, where the stranger he’s just rescued from a buzzing mass of drones is standing kind of awkwardly, all limbs and nerves. He’s picking at where the paint’s chipped with a gloved finger and Akira resists the urge to slap his hand away. “Lemme tell you, though, stuff’s hard to come by nowadays.”

“I don’t even know your name,” Akira blurts out, because the stranger may be annoying and rude but _his_ family has taught him some manners. Plus, he has an ongoing competition with Reyna for least abrasive twin and he’ll be damned if he loses it because of some lanky guy with brown doe eyes.

Those same doe eyes go wide for a second, as if the stranger’s just realized his appalling lack of courtesy, then he extends the same hand he was resting on Akira’s bike towards him. “Of course, of course! Name’s Leandro.” He grins, bright, as Akira meets him for a handshake. “Thanks for the ride, by the way.”

He doesn’t say “thanks for saving my life” Akira notes, nor does he stand any more at ease now, his smile almost jarring against the set of his jaw. The temptation to tell him he’s not a cab driver and send him away on his own stings on his tongue, thrashes in his throat, but they’re in the middle of the desert and Akira’s shack is close and city folks don’t know the way across the dunes. So instead, he motions Leandro to hop back onto the bike.

“You need a bath,” is all he offers as an explanation. Then, “I’m Akira, and you’re welcome.”

 

***

 

It turns out Leandro is part of a group of rebel fighters he starts to immediately introduce to Akira via tinny, unreliable radio transmissions he manages to establish every now and then with a girl named Pana, who seems to be far too smart and far too eager to yell at Leandro for “getting lost”, to which he invariably responds, “I knew perfectly well where I was!”   
It would be almost endearing, if it weren’t for the fact that Leandro’s still in Akira’s shack: he doesn’t take up much space, considering he only had a small duffel bag slung over his shoulder when Akira hauled him on top of his hover bike, but he fills the whole place with incessant chattering about the most mundane things. Dante and Hachiko regard him with justified, ever so polite wariness at first, not quite sure of why Akira’s brought home a stray, but there’s affection growing firmer each day too, Leandro slipping past their guard with infuriating ease. Reyna spars with him once and stamps her seal of approval on him in the form of a pat on the shoulder that sends him tumbling forward as she laughs.

“That’s one point for me,” Akira says dryly, to which her face crumples in horror. He runs away for a patrol in the desert before she can get up in arms about how slapping a semi-stranger on the back so hard he loses his footing is actually an act of friendliness among warriors. “Ask Mom and those Marmora friends of yours!” is the last thing he hears her shout over the rumbling of the engine as he takes flight.

 

***

 

It’s clear that Leandro has family, too: Akira can see it in the way he sneaks glances that aren’t quite longing, but not quite serene either, at Hachiko and Dante, or in the way he softens around Reyna and lets her push him around, or in the hushed, hurried tone he uses sometimes when he’s on the radio with someone. It makes something uncomfortable stir in Akira’s gut, something heavy and cumbersome by the fourth day of cohabitation, so he acts on it, because if there’s something that’s kept his ass alive in the dangerous business of rebelling it’s following his gut feelings. That and the people around him, of course.

“I’m driving you home,” he tells Leandro on the dawn of the fifth day. The rose-tinted light feels cool on the skin of his face and he’s grateful for it as he watches Leandro struggle to sit upright, sleep still clouding his eyes and hands clutched around the helmet Akira’s unceremoniously tossed him. Fuck, that’s one point for Reyna, isn’t it.

“Isn’t it too soon?” Leandro manages to protest in the end, “those drone signals we’ve picked up the other day are still in the area, it would be suicide.”

Akira manages not to scoff at that. “Yeah, with any other pilot.”

“ _Wow_ , just—”

“I’ve flown you through enemy fire once, I can do it again.” He starts walking towards the door, then turns around, the thing inside of him bubbling up. “So, you coming?”

There’s a brief, pinched expression on Leandro’s face for a moment, but before he can try to make sense of it the helmet obscures it. Akira tells himself the taste in his mouth right now isn’t regret and steps outside, taking in a lungful of brisk early morning air before putting his own helmet on.

This time he doesn’t help Leandro onto the bike, just stares at the dunes ahead and swallows back a shiver when the weight of Leandro’s arms settles around his waist.

“Work your magic, ace pilot,” comes from behind him, and Akira can’t help but grin wide as he spots the blinking lights of the drones over the horizon.

 

***

 

It’s months later, after their groups have joined forces, after raids and races against empire drones and each other alike, after nights spent around the fire watching the people around him dance and sing as Leandro plays an old guitar he managed to salvage from the ruins of his own old house years ago, that Akira bursts. Or maybe that’s incorrect, maybe he’s simply overflowing, slow and inexorable and strangely steady on his feet as he tips forward and traces the corner of Leandro’s mouth with his thumb.

There’s a pile of bags full of stolen food rations and medicines balanced on the rear of his hover bike, a similar pile on top of Leandro’s own (it’s painted an electric blue and full of fading stickers his siblings have slapped in the most improbable places) and adrenaline is still coursing through them both, exhilarating as Akira finally, _finally_ kisses the lanky stranger that’s been worming his way into everything he calls home.

“First to get back calls dibs on the shower?” he whispers in the shell of Leandro’s ear, laughs out loud as he shoves him backward. The wind on his face feels almost as nice as the warmth he’s just left.


End file.
